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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25383298">A Thing With Feathers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedheadAmongWolves/pseuds/RedheadAmongWolves'>RedheadAmongWolves</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>For Which We Were Born [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV), Mindhunter (TV 2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Gore, Child Acquisition, Fluff, Holden is Will and Hannibal's Son, Implied Cannibalism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Fic, M/M, Mild Angst, Murder Family, Murder Husbands, Post-Hannibal (TV) Season/Series 03, just like. all the gooey love, lol, not by Will or Hannibal but an icky OC</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:28:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,077</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25383298</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedheadAmongWolves/pseuds/RedheadAmongWolves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is a big decision, Hannibal.”</p><p>“I know. Some might equate it with plunging over a cliff. Luckily for us, we’ve already thrived in the wake of the one.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>For Which We Were Born [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1735834</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>152</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Thing With Feathers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is the prequel and third installment of the For Which We Were Born series, but can be read first, or second, or third, or heck maybe as a stand-alone. This series refuses to release me so there might be some drabbles coming here and there in the future but! Here we are! Le prequel! Set five years after the cliff plunge. </p><p>Title from “Hope is the thing with feathers” from Emily Dickinson, a very fitting poem for content and also, like. a baby ravenstag lmao. Enjoy!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They’re at the rooftop restaurant of their hotel in the heart of Barcelona, tucked away at a table for two near the balcony, high above the city, with only a canopy of grape vines and twinkling lights between them and the stars. Across the floor, a woman sings a ballad while a man strums a<span> laúd,</span> and Hannibal and Will have finished their meal and are on their second bottle of wine, quiet as they listen to the music and the murmured conversations of the people around them. It’s a familiar scene, because they’ve spent almost every evening meal here since their arrival two weeks ago, but Will is well-versed in what endings feel like, and he knows they’ll be moving to their next location soon, so he’s savoring the moment as best he can.</p><p>Will’s Castilian is abysmal, so he’s mostly just watching, flexing the muscle of his imagination on their fellow patrons. It’s a popular restaurant with tourists and natives alike, but the resort is high-end and billed as a romantic getaway where privacy is valued, so no one is sparing any glance away from their lover’s eyes to the two fugitives in their midst. Which is just how they like it.</p><p>Not that he and Hannibal are particularly recognizable at the moment. The newspaper images of them had been mostly grainy, faraway paparazzi shots taken by a then-poorly funded Freddie Lounds, and upon their escape five years ago, they’ve altered their appearances considerably. Will has dyed his hair dark and grown his beard full to hide his scar, and Hannibal’s hair is longer than Will’s ever seen it— and he has <em> facial hair</em>. By some bizarre twist of events, between the two of them, <em> Hannibal </em> looks like the scruffy one. Will only moderately resents how well he pulls it off. </p><p>Their clothes are different, too, which Will can more than appreciate— gone are the three piece plaid and paisley suits, replaced instead with flowing linen, and Hannibal’s shirt is unbuttoned nearly halfway, revealing silver curling chest hair that makes Will reach for his wine glass to avoid an indecent display. </p><p>His throat— though not his thirst— quenched, he turns back to their surroundings, weaving the stories and connections like plucking invisible threads from the air. </p><p>The musicians are obviously fucking, with the bedroom eyes they’re pulling, but the bartender is shooting daggers their way— maybe a jealous ex, but Will’s not entirely certain of who. Maybe both. To the right of their table, an elderly white couple is sharing a dessert, forks shaking in their gnarled hands. A long-saved-for anniversary. Despite the heat, the woman is in her best velvet dress, the hem mended quite a few times. To their left, a young man sits alone, writing in a notebook, pausing occasionally to prop his chin on his fist and look out over the balcony. He’s on his fifth cocktail and seems to have scratched out an entire page of words, so Will guesses the novel’s not going well. </p><p>His eyes are drawn to a flurry of movement at the entrance of the restaurant— a pert, bottle-blonde woman, on the arm of a white-haired, potbellied man. Her wrists are laden with diamonds, and she’s whispering something to her partner, making him chortle unattractively. They’re led by a young waiter to a table by the bar, where the woman snaps at the boy to pull out her chair.</p><p>Next to him, Hannibal hums softly, drawing Will’s attention back to him. His profile is illuminated by the rosy lights, and he’s watching Will, maroon eyes doing something complicated.</p><p>Will arches a brow. “What’s that look?”</p><p>Hannibal’s mouth twitches. “I’m contemplating immortality.”</p><p>“You’re always contemplating immortality,” Will huffs. “What’s different this time?”</p><p>“I’m contemplating <em> our </em>immortality.”</p><p>Will rolls his eyes. “We’ve already had this conversation. I don’t need to be immortal, Hannibal. And you’re already infamous— isn’t that good enough?”</p><p>He, of course, already knows the answer. “No. I am a selfish man, darling. I want there to be something that outlives us. Lets us live on.”</p><p>“Your beliefs, you mean. You’re not the only cannibal in the world, you know.” There’s not much chance of them being overheard, but Will lowers his voice regardless. </p><p>“Certainly the most civilized one, I’d say,” —Will huffs another laugh— “But no, not only that.” Hannibal’s eyes glimmer, and Will just <em> knows </em> he’s about to say something sappy. “A love like ours, <em> mylimasis</em>. <em> That </em> should live on.”</p><p>Will rolls his eyes, but he can’t stop the fondness seeping through the expression. “Alright, I’ll bite. How do you propose we do that?”</p><p>“A child.”</p><p>Will is thankful he hadn’t been drinking, because he absolutely would have done a spit take— <em> that</em>, he had not been expecting. He still almost chokes on his own saliva, earning a look of mild repulsion from Hannibal, which he ignores. “I beg your pardon?” </p><p>“You heard me.”</p><p>Will angles his body more towards his husband. “Setting aside, for a moment, the impossibility of that statement, I didn’t think you ever wanted children.”</p><p>“I admit I had never considered it a viable option. As a bachelor I valued my privacy, for obvious reasons,” he winks, making Will smile, though it’s still tinged with incredulity, “and then there were the circumstances of my childhood— Mischa had been my charge, and in many ways I was her father, and to lose her—” </p><p>Will’s smile drops fast, and his voice, when he speaks, is hard in warning. “Don’t pretend the thought of losing another was too much to bear. You had no problem making that decision yourself when it came to—”</p><p>He cuts off. The name they don’t speak. Hannibal at least has the grace to look sorry. </p><p>“It hadn’t seemed possible,” he says, after a pause. “Now, though.” He looks at Will under pale eyelashes, intent and reverent, and Will’s shoulders untense, unable to stay mad at him for long. They’re so intertwined, have become so in these past five years and the years of their history before that, that Hannibal’s heart is his heart, stitched and restitched together, and he can’t ever find it in himself to resent or regret that. </p><p>“A life on the run isn’t much of a life for a kid,” Will counters, because if they’re going to discuss this, they might as well do it seriously. Hannibal opens his mouth to reply, but beats him to it. “Yes, it’s <em> our </em> life, but we <em> chose </em> this. To bring in a child, condemn him to an upbringing in the shadows when he’ll seek the light— <em> deserve </em> the light—” </p><p>“We can <em> give </em> him the light. Teach him how to see, <em> what </em> to see. Understand so much more than any of them could ever,” Hannibal gestures broadly, and Will follows his hand to the people completely unaware of what is, <em> who </em> is, just under their nose. Ignorant, oblivious people. People who’ve never had to see the things they’ve seen, <em> blissful— </em></p><p>“No. I don’t want him to have a fucked-up head like mine,” Will shakes his head, refusing to look at Hannibal, because he knows the look of indignation he’d meet.</p><p>Sure enough, the answer comes fast. “Your brain is <em> exquisite</em>, my darling. Any child would be <em> lucky </em> to—”</p><p>“To live a life soaked in blood? We’re killers— for fuck’s sake, Hannibal, we’re <em> cannibals</em>, unless you’ve decided to suddenly retire that particular feature of our lives?"</p><p>Hannibal’s mouth is a firm line, so Will ploughs on. “That’s what I thought. Do you intend to hide it from him forever? Ban him from the kitchen? Hope he never stumbles across the basement? Kids ask questions, Hannibal. Do you have answers?”</p><p>His husband is quiet for a long moment. “I am not suggesting it would be easy. But,” he splays a hand on the white tablecloth, slowly stretching his fingers wide, and Will watches, notes the creases of age in the skin, the callouses from artistry, the myriad of tiny scars from a youth he still only knows in snatches, and he thinks of how he knows the texture of those fingers intimately, would recognize them anywhere, even if he were robbed of his sight. “People become parents because they believe they could raise their children better than their own parents raised them. Because they believe they could make them happy. And because they believe the world would be better with their descendants in it; that the world is deserving of that effort, and that they are deserving of that world.”</p><p>“That’s why people <em> should </em> become parents,” Will answers, just as quietly, thinking of his own youth, spent in too many empty rooms. “That’s not always how it happens.”</p><p>“Our child would know a love like no other, Will. And the world he could make—” And Will can see it too, but he shouldn’t see it, he can’t— </p><p>“How do I know you’re not going to take this one away, too?” he makes himself ask. “How do I know you won’t use it against me, like you’ve already done?”</p><p>Hannibal’s hand curls into a fist on the table, and it twitches, slightly, but Will can’t be sure if it’s because it wants to reach for him to caress, or something else. </p><p>“You don’t,” Hannibal says simply. “But I won’t. And I promised I’d never lie to you again.” </p><p>The song ends, and the musicians start up another, this one faster, lighter. Will looks at Hannibal, sees the man he gave everything for, the man who did the same for him, and lets out a shuddering exhale. </p><p>“Will—” Hannibal starts, but Will cuts him off, which he’s very aware he’s the only person alive who can do so without ending up in an omelet, thank you very much. </p><p>“Why are we even talking about this, Hannibal?” he asks. “We obviously can’t have our own, and no adoption agency is going to let us get within a hundred feet of their door with our <em> lifestyle</em>,” because this is the 50s, and they’re two men, “and it’s not like we can just <em> take </em> one.” But Will also knows Hannibal’s mind like he knows his own, at last, which means even as he says the words, he knows exactly what Hannibal intends to do, and he’s known this the whole time, given how they’ve been using a male pronoun to discuss this seemingly hypothetical child. “We can’t just <em> take a child</em>,” Will repeats, for deaf ears. </p><p>“But we could save one.”</p><p>Will sighs again, and scrubs a hand down his face in resignation, thinking of diamond-heavy wrists and a throaty cackle. “The couple in 327.”</p><p>“The crying alone, Will.”</p><p>“I know, I’ve heard it too.”</p><p>Hannibal and he were in 421, a floor up and a few doors down, but they could hear the infant wailing through the floor. A baby boy, belonging to the blonde trophy wife and the elderly man who had sauntered through the restaurant doors just as Hannibal had started this conversation. Will looks at them now, at their table by the bar. There’s champagne between them, and they’re leaning close enough across the table that their noses are almost touching, and the woman is trying to look coy but her red lipstick is too orange-based for her complexion, and her roots are starting to show at her scalp, dishwater brown beneath the brittle bleach blonde. The diamonds alone were gaudy, but she’s got a heeled shoe drawing up and down the man’s calf, to the man’s evident growing physical interest that he doesn’t bother to hide. Will would want to rid the world of them even without the child neglect.</p><p>It’s obviously a second or third marriage for the man, and she’s obviously a gold-digger, more than likely a secretary who’d gotten pregnant in their affair and insisted on keeping the child to keep the man. She goes out shopping most days. The man almost certainly has grown children, as he couldn’t be less interested in a baby, always on business calls when not handing his wife a checkbook, and the mother clearly doesn’t have a speck of maternal instincts. They’d brought along a nanny, who Will had been watching, too, over breakfasts in the cafe downstairs, or in the park across the street: a crone of a woman who ignored the infant when he cried in favor of flirting with the waiters or reading a magazine, letting the kid suffer in hunger or his own filth. They probably blame colic if anyone raises concerns, but the treatment indicates otherwise. Will couldn’t bear to think of how she must treat the infant when out of the public eye. </p><p>It’d be an easy job, really, and his mind is already mostly made up. He hasn’t been able to stomach the idea of leaving Barcelona having done nothing to help. </p><p>“We’re not vigilantes,” he voices, still, in the charade of a protest, because <em> saving </em> doesn’t have to mean <em> keeping</em>, but Hannibal’s mouth curls, knowing.</p><p>“A one-off, then.”</p><p>“This is a big decision, Hannibal.”</p><p>“I know. Some might equate it with plunging over a cliff. Luckily for us, we’ve already thrived in the wake of the one.”</p><p>Will can’t fight his smile, so he doesn’t bother, and it grows into a grin as Hannibal’s eyes shine back with amusement. Hannibal curls his fingers around the stem of his wine glass to lift it between them. Will mirrors him, and their glasses chime as they connect.</p><p>“To the next cliff.”</p><p>“You’re ridiculous.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They check out of the hotel the next day, moving to a hotel across town, where they wait three agonizing days before returning in the night. It’s pathetically easy, killing the nanny silently in the spare bedroom, careful not to get blood anywhere, before creating a more garish display in the master with the couple. They make sure they’re awake, of course. Will hears Hannibal muttering something to the man, though he’s not exactly certain what. They’d both agreed the woman would be Will’s kill this time. The terror in her eyes never once flashes to regret, so Will feels no remorse as he gives the knife another twist.</p><p>They’re taking the hearts, to better fit a crime of passion, and they’re pinning it on the nanny— they’ll shove her body into the Balearic before dawn, with her suitcase and the baby’s. When the authorities find it, they’ll assume the child was lost to the waves, and the case will be closed as a kidnapping/murder-suicide. </p><p>But that’s for later. Right now, they turn their attention to the crib, where the child is crying, presumably left to self-soothe, but clearly in need of care. </p><p>Will can’t peel his gloves off fast enough, and he hurriedly unzips and shoves down the top of his plastic suit so that it bunches around his waist before reaching in to pick the baby up, ever so carefully, and cradle him against his chest and softest cotton shirt, murmuring a gentle <em> shhhh</em>, and the cries cease almost immediately. Will’s heart swells and shatters all at once. </p><p>He lowers his nose to the baby’s down-soft hair and inhales deeply. His heart is racing. He does his best not to hold too tightly, but he’s hard-pressed. He doesn’t think even Hannibal could take him from him at the moment. </p><p>Luckily, Hannibal doesn’t try, only coming over to place a gentle hand on the baby’s back and a kiss to Will’s forehead, which Will can’t help but lean into. The baby burrows into his chest, hiccuping softly, and Will feels his own eyes start to burn. </p><p>“We’ll only take a few things,” Hannibal says softly, stepping away to the dresser, on top of which a baby bag sits virtually untouched. “Until we can replace them with our own.” Will wouldn’t be surprised if Hannibal sets fire to the old possessions once they’ve finished with them. Will lets Hannibal pack the bag they’ll take and the bag they’ll toss into the sea, as well as the nanny’s belongings, leaving some things haphazardly behind to make the scene look rushed. </p><p>The baby hasn’t made any sound other than his hiccups. None of the coos or babbles a baby should usually be making, in Will’s limited experience with infants. In Will’s arms he’s too light, too fragile, and Will focuses on taking measured breaths to stay calm— the couple is already dead, after all. Hannibal and he will have all the time in the world to focus on nursing him back to health. <em> Loving </em> him. </p><p>“His passport’s here,” Hannibal says. He scans the booklet. “He’s a year old, birthday June 3rd. They’re from Belgium. Lovely country, I’ll take us there sometime.” </p><p>“What’s his name?” </p><p>“Whatever you decide to name him,” Hannibal answers, moving to the bedside table where a candle stands flickering, and he holds the passport over the flame until it catches. He drops the burning paper into a metal trash can waiting below. “He’s certainly not accustomed to a particular name. They barely spoke to him.”</p><p>Tasked with this new responsibility, Will realizes that naming a baby is nothing like naming a dog. He pulls the baby away— only slightly— from his chest, to see his face better, and the child looks up at him with wide blue eyes that seem far older than only a year. Will has the thought, suddenly, that this baby might have just as much to teach him as he has to teach it.</p><p>Will is no stranger to awakenings. The awakening of his own darkness, of his love for Hannibal, of his decision to give in to both. But this feeling in his chest is something new entirely. There is nothing he would not do for this child. He would throw himself over a thousand cliffs for him. Or, better yet, he would stand at the bottom of every cliff in the world, to catch him if he fell. </p><p>“Holden,” he christens.</p><p>He shifts the baby better into the crook of his arm, and extends a finger towards him, stroking it feather-light over his cheek, and the baby reaches up and grabs it in his fist, holding back, incredibly, impossibly strong. </p><p>Hannibal sets the bags by the door and approaches. “Salinger?” He smiles, reading Will’s mind as always. He smooths a hand over the baby’s head, ruffling the fine brown hair. Holden blinks up at him, still holding fiercely onto Will’s finger. “Very fitting. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Holden Graham-Lecter. Welcome to the family.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>baby Holden and his little ravioli baby fists grabbing Will’s finger goOD FUCKING BYE.</p><p>I never in my life thought I would write a baby fic bc i usually avoid them like the plague bc reasons but like. I swear to god my heart grew three sizes writing this. </p><p>my visual headcanons for our boys: <a href="https://www.pinterest.com/pin/550424385678499100/">Will</a>, and <a href="https://www.pinterest.com/pin/555772410239546974/">Hannibal</a> </p><p>Also, discovered this quote from Catcher in the Rye (which I have never read lol I somehow escaped American public school without having to but !!! it’s on my shelf and i fully intend to!!!) that is SO heart wrenching when you apply it to perfect-dad!Will so: “Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all… and nobody's around—nobody big, I mean—except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff—I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy.”</p><p>don’t own hannibal and/or mindhunter, disclaimers disclaimers! </p><p>comments and kudos always cherished &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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